Amen Dunes craft impassioned reflection with eclectic Freedom

“I think male ego is at the root of society’s problems. Fuck if it’s not at the core of our issues.”

So says Damon McMahon, better known as psychedelic folk-rock artist Amen Dunes in an interview with Vinyl Me Please, taking a succinct stance that could hardly be more relevant to current American values. Toxic masculinity is unfortunately a cornerstone of the flawed American male identity, exemplified by horrific behavior surrounding Trump, Weinstein, and countless others accused of sexual misconduct. All the more fitting then that Amen Dunes’ fifth LP Freedom (2018) is titled with an American buzzword, and dives into themes of male identity and gaining freedom from ego by, as McMahon puts in the interview, “relinquishing of self through exposition of self.” In other words, Freedom shows Amen Dunes vulnerably exploring the self to work towards something beyond. With his shadowy face in the center of the album artwork, McMahon’s self-reflection is at the heart of Freedom’s thematic point of view.

The focus on masculinity is a personal one for McMahon, who has found a musical career at odds with his father’s directly oppositional working class values. But McMahon’s perspective isn’t strictly anti-male; the titles alone of Amen Dunes’ previous EP, Cowboy Worship (2015) and an earlier 2011 LP, Through Donkey Jaw (evoking both biblical Samson and mule-like work ethic) both suggest reverence for the sweaty and masculine. Likewise, Freedom is bookended with a sample of a young boy emphatically delivering lines from Kurt Russell’s inspirational speech in hockey movie Miracle (2004): “This is your time. Their time is done. It’s over. I’m sick and tired… Screw ’em! This is your time. Now go out there and take it.” This masculine ideal is potent and straightforward, and is promptly followed by McMahon’s mother reading a quote from abstract artist Agnes Martin: “I don’t have any ideas myself. I have a vacant mind.” Appropriately, the album grapples with masculinity not through harsh indictment, but rather through murmured pondering on the complexities of power and influence.

The most notable example of this reflection is the record’s first single, “Miki Dora,” named after the infamous anarchist surfer and scam-artist, “a true embodiment of the distorted male psyche,” as McMahon states. The song paces forward with a relaxed euphoria reminiscent of Tom Petty, evoking a controlled coolness with muted guitar licks peppered in, and maintains a warm, major tone throughout. Any signs of disapproval for the surfer-icon are subtle and limited to lyrics, mostly indicated through the mantra of “the waves are gone” and relevant self-reflection of “pride destroyed me man / ‘til it took ahold of me.” Rather than dismissal of a masculine influence through cleverness, the song accomplishes a sense of growth by coming to terms with the follies of idolizing masculinity and burning off the excess as the song fades away.

In fact, this is the way much of Freedom accomplishes its namesake—by grabbing a hold of a different emotional kink in each song, building intricate, danceable grooves around the central idea, and exorcising the demons away through the eviscerating energy of the music. The title track, for example, is born amidst sleepy chants, gains a steadiness through slow additions of percussion and surrounding vocals, and right when it seems to conclude, returns storming with an ambitious groove— a post-reflection celebration. The song’s fake-out ending is actually one of the most motivated endings of any of the songs, so the switch-up is a statement of freedom from the burdens of specificity and convention. It’s a doubling down on preference for the indefinite and oblique.

In 2014, I remember my excitement upon buying the CD for Amen Dunes’ previous LP Love just so I could finally read the liner notes and understand the lyrics— and even then it was difficult to match the written words with McMahon’s slurred vocal style. Not much has changed in four years in that regard, with online lyric sites using “[?]” as a frequent substitute for many of the lyrics on Freedom. That said, the lack of clarity is ultimately beneficial. McMahon’s vocals are emotionally powerful because they prioritize an unrestricted delivery that quivers with tight vibrato and moans. On occasion, mantras gain semantic significance, such as “light will come near” on the title track and the pained cry of “I’m not down” on “Believe,” but the majority of lyrics remain audibly cryptic, leaving plenty of room for the listener to focus on the vocal’s expressive timbre rather than strict meaning.

That is to say, despite the meaning of each song’s specific lyrics, the album’s primary power comes from the intricate and open musicality surrounding those ideas. Whereas Love accomplished a meditative, spiritual peace through a looseness of ambient folk textures and rolling toms (contributions from members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Iceage are particularly notable), Freedom uses an even wider eclecticism to fuel its equally classic rock and electronic-inspired propulsion. With unbounded influences, the album calls to the intricate and powerful build-ups of Aphex Twin, the reassuringly melodic jangle of The La’s, the playful 80s punch of Aztec Camera, and the experimental spaciness of Throbbing Gristle.

Yet despite the wide range of influences, all elements still operate as a cohesive, compelling unit which powers through the ache of the vocals. The synths dreamily bounce and the guitar pulses, reinforcing the drums’ soft-but-sturdy quality. The mix keeps all elements distant, creating a sound that feels organic despite its electronic-inspired looping, and grows more rewarding with every careful listen. The subtle craft of the instrumental timbres suggests a patience and delicacy that is notably unmasculine and refreshing. As such, my best experiences listening to the album have been alone with headphones, giving each textured detail its due attention and reflecting on the sum emotional torrent of each song as it builds.

Freedom captures a sense of attuned reflection and rewards relief as each additional song frees the listener from their troubles by effectively allowing the listener to dance in the face of them. It’s a hopeful record in this sense, and perhaps why it feels so compelling and invigorating even without any hopeful message directly spelled out. Freedom is a resounding effort of Amen Dunes and a bold addition to his catalog, inviting listeners on a vulnerable, emotional journey that reassures the listener with musical celebration throughout.

Listen to Freedom on Spotify and Bandcamp, and see Amen Dunes open for Fleet Foxes at The Greek Theatre, April 20th.

Written by Dylan Medlock